


Mission Accomplished

by Fenris30



Category: Tekken
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Combat, Fight Scenes, Gen, Gore, Graphic Description, Graphic Violence, Martial Arts, Tekken - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenris30/pseuds/Fenris30
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wounded in an ambush on their way to destroy a Mishima Zaibatsu base in the woods somewhere in Europe, his entire unit killed, Sergei Dragunov thinks he has enough left in him to continue his mission. Not about to die easily, the enemy might discover what happens when the leave him both alive and angry...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mission Accomplished

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a bit of fan-art I saw. It's pretty graphically violent. It's a quasi 'speed-write', which means it's got very light editing, and just more or less spellchecked, tweaked a little, and that's it. Besides graphic violence, there is sort of 'medical ick' for lack of a better word; basically if situations of people getting wounds taken care of bugs you, beware of the first part.

Sergei's eyes were squeezed shut as he adjusted himself. It wasn't the pain that bothered him; it was the fact that he _could_ have been dying and he wouldn't be able to kill the bastards who did this to him.

He couldn't have that. _If_ he was to die-and he was not planning on dying today-his enemies would die with him.

He looked slowly to his left and right, moving his arms and legs. They were fine. One arm had enough shrapnel in it that would make it a bit difficult to use, but so long as he had one arm and both of his legs, he could kill. The arm was functional, though. 

His flak vest had been torn apart from the first explosion, along with three men in his unit. It was on him in tatters. He did not have much clothing left on his upper body; he could probably scavenge something, and it was luckily not too cold out yet. It was autumn, and chilly, but he would not be in danger of freezing to death. A regular person would be uncomfortable, but he was not what one would call a regular person.

He was called his nickname for a reason, and he would deliver.

He managed to work himself over to a tree and onto his feet, holding his stomach as put his back to it before sliding down the rough bark and sitting. Breathing heavily, he examined the damage to his body.

The blood was everywhere. There was _so_ much of it. Not all of it was Sergei's; some belonged to his men, and some more belonged to his enemies. His hands were slick with it, his green cargo trousers were rather well spattered, and his heavy combat boots were caked in it. He spat blood out, examining his wounded arm first.

It had quite a bit of shrapnel in it, particularly in the upper arm; however, no arteries were hit, and he suspected he could pull enough out. Moving it, he grit his teeth...but figured in the heat of battle, when his adrenaline would be pumping even higher than it was now, he would be able to utilize it just fine.

He was more concerned about his gut.

Looking down, there was an enormous slice...and he could see some of his own entrails poking out. Luckily, it was not much. Unluckily, generally _any_ amount of one's entrails poking out was fatal if not properly treated, and he knew this. Infection would likely happen if he did not get medical attention, but it would likely require him to get to the base up the hill-he suspected there were only a few Zaibatsu soldiers left-and radio for help.

He had nothing to lose. He would do what he could here, using what field medicine he knew, and then see how long he would last. His job was to destroy the base above, and he could at the very least kill everyone in it, leaving the sabotage part to the backup that came. 

He told himself he would not die before killing at least _one_ more of the bastards.

He started by tearing off many strips of cloth from anywhere he could; his men would no longer need what they were wearing. One still had an intact vest he could wear over everything. 

He was lucky; the lowest layers of muscle were not cut as badly. He figured that a large piece blew by him, tore a large hole in the first few layers of his meat, but did not puncture the last layers as badly; only somewhat. One of the men had been blown in two, so he counted himself _extremely_ lucky, at that. 

There was something else he had in his own pocket; something he would have saved until the end, but he sort of needed it now. It would keep him going, in any case. He pulled a pint-sized silver flask out; one filled with a rather nice vodka.

He thought it might take some of the edge off.

He twisted the cap off with his teeth and downed a swig, exhaling almost in relief. It was sweet, as it always tasted to him. He took one more long pull; he probably took about three shots in at that moment. He leaned again against the tree, allowing the soft buzz to wash over him; he was such a large man that it took him enormous amounts to get drunk, but a few shots drank quickly would at least buzz him.

He then grit his teeth, letting go of the wound slightly to pour a bit of the vodka over it. He knew it would act somewhat like an antiseptic, as hard alcohol could do. It would not by any means be a permanent fix, but it would at least make it so things didn't get worse in there. He grit his teeth slightly at the burning sensation, but he had felt worse. He had felt _much_ worse. The man who sliced his lip open as a teenager made him feel worse, though the pain went away as his adrenaline took over and he smashed his face in as a result.

This was almost numb at this point, truth be told.

He poured a little vodka on one of the cloths before folding it several times; he then recapped it, saving some more for the end. He then grabbed some of the long cloths and inhaled, pushing in whatever was sliding out; he again thought he was lucky this wasn't worse. He put the vodka-soaked one against it, pressing it extremely tightly, before he started to wrap one of the other things around his torso, tying it off as tightly as he could without ripping the cloth. He had to be careful here, as Sergei had an abnormal strength about him.

He repeated this with more scavenged cloth from his comrades, and by the time he was done, he had a pretty nice bandage, all told. He sipped more vodka, before resting a moment; he then began to walk around, testing it, moving his arms and legs, throwing a few punches and kicks. It hurt, but pain was nothing. His silent anger carried him on; he didn't think of it.

_It is nothing._

His mission would be completed. He was sent here to kill any remaining Zaibatsu and to sabotage the small base they had in this forest-they suspected that there was something in this area they were looking for-and he would do just that.

He took one of the vests; it was the biggest one he could find, but a little small for his huge frame. It fit well enough though; tight enough to be extra help holding himself together, but he could still move.

He stared at the base up the hill, grabbing his sidearm. A gun could come in handy, though he more often than not fought with his bare hands.

He moved off to the side and started up the hill, keeping behind trees. He turned back, looking at the bloodbath behind him; his men dead, though three Tekken Force soldiers were dead as well; their bones twisted, their heads misshapen from Sergei's fists and heavy boots.

_Now the rest..._

 

–

 

The Tekken Force soldier gurgled blood, grabbing his exposed neck where the bullet tore through. He tried to claw the visor of his helmet up but could not; he fell forward, expiring rather quickly.

The second man standing guard was staring at the body when a massive form hit him from behind, bowling him down and over. He stood, looking up, his eyes widening.

Sergei stared down coldly.

“...You...dead?” It was clear he was surprised that Sergei was not dead.

He simply answered by reaching down, yanking him up and twisting his head practically clean around; the wet _snap_ was not particularly quiet, though he doubted anyone inside heard. He tore the man's helmet off, having a plan with it.

He felt quite fine so far; the bandage was tight, and the vest was helping as well. He figured he could fight several men if needed, but he did need to also get to the communications room to radio for extraction. The base was small; a corridor leading only to the right, a few rooms scattered about. It did not seem busy, and he figured some of them were licking their wounds as they had to run away after he had started massacring them even as he was dripping blood from a dozen wounds.

He kicked the door in; still seemingly without effort. The wounds had not done anything to sap his enormous strength. Sergei seemed to have the strength of ten men; what the Russian military did to him, no one really knew. He then flung the helmet-its plastic face-shield bloodied by the man coughing out a bunch when his neck was snapped-into the first man who turned the corner. He wore no helmet, catching it and staring down.

He was barely able to utter a word as Sergei charged, his left leg wheeling around in a massive roundhouse kick, shattering the side of his face; including his cheek, jawbone, and eyesocket. Blood and teeth flew out, hitting the wall as the man slid down, twitching. One more kick caved in his temple, killing him.

A couple of more came out; Sergei barely remembered anything. He lashed out with brutal kicks and punches, smashing bone, grabbing enemies and twisting limbs. He simply tried not to think about his injury; that he could feel, everything was still okay. He had, indeed, made it tight enough, though he would prefer to stop soon.

Breaking into the end of the corridor, one man was there; much larger than the rest, though only just about Sergei's size. He pulled a knife as he knew a gun would be no use right now in this close range; he charged Sergei, managing to slice him across the shoulder before he was able to get away. Sergei managed to come around, a vicious kick hitting him in the stomach, though it was lighter than it could have been; it knocked the wind out of him even then, and by the sound, broke a couple of ribs.

This man seemed to have more stamina than the rest; he was able to come up with an open hand to Sergei's face, smashing his nose fairly well. It didn't break, but blood flowed from it and into his mouth; he could taste the rich iron all over again. He wiped his hand on it, looking at it before glaring at the big man, who was coming around with another swipe with the knife where he stumbled...the look in Sergei's eyes unnerved him for just a moment.

It was all he needed; Sergei came forward in a massive shoulder check, knocking him back; surprisingly, the big man stood his ground. One more stab to the torso came short of potentially killing him; his speed was the only think that saved him, he knew. Sergei grabbed his arm, snapping it in the middle so ferociously that the bone broke through the skin; the man did not scream, though.

He punched him in the face once...then twice, then three times. His fist dripped blood as he smashed the man's nose in, knocking teeth out in the process which clattered on the floor. He stood back, supporting his injured arm with his good one and brought both fists down on top of his head; this drove him to his knees, where he fell backward, slumping against the wall, half sitting.

Sergei would give him credit later that this man lasted until the end, and nearly killed him one last time as he reached for his pistol and tried to aim it as he was on his back...but was unable to hold onto it as Sergei smashed his heel down onto his face. The red haze had now taken him over; wounded as it was and this man almost killed him twice. He smashed his boot down again, three times, four times. He was dead by the second hit, but this did not stop him. He smashed down again, his skull long split open and the wall behind him coated in blood. His face was a ruin of gore, his hand still gripping the pistol in death as it hung from his side. 

The rage passed; while Sergei could stay calm, this whole situation was all too much for him. Yet...he was able to salvage the mission.

He sat in a chair, unfastening the vest long enough to examine his stomach; it was still okay, though blood was beginning to soak the bandages. He closed the vest back up, going onto the radio. He dialed into the appropriate frequency and uttered only three words into the microphone...

“ **It is done.”**

They knew where the place was; he knew they would not need directions or such things. He probably also knew they had an idea of what happened, given the relative silence that they have probably had on the line.

He then sat back, pulling out the flask and another small case; in this were his cigarettes. He removed one, lighting it and drawing deep. Blowing the smoke out of his mouth, he took a sip from the flask. The only sound in the place was the soft static on the radio...and the sound of the dead man behind him's blood running out of the ruin of his head occasionally.

Soon, footsteps were added to that. Two sets, if he could guess. He had a feeling-judging by how they sounded-they were not his men. They seemed too...urgent.

The door was pushed open, and two men appeared; their guns were not drawn. They looked at Sergei sitting there-wounded, smoking a cigarette, a flask of vodka on his hand. They had a feeling the blood-on his fists, his boots, and spattered around on the floor-was not his. They eyed the corpse on the ground; his head a ruin of blood, bone, and anything else that tended to leak out when it was smashed in.

Sergei stood, placing his flask on the table and putting the cigarette between his lips, before walking toward the men, his eyes not leaving them. Suddenly, he flew forward, his right fist hitting one square in the temple as it swung overhead.

_Mission accomplished._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well this was fun. I was inspired by a picture I saw of Sergei wounded, and I wanted to write a story about it. Of course he lives, Sergei is made of iron as we all know. No, maybe not the most realistic story(humans CAN survive something like this, but they wouldn't likely be fighting like he did. Still, it's the Tekken world and there are fighting bears and people getting shot in battle, I think I can take a few liberties here. ;)) 
> 
> As per usual, he uses a bunch of moves he's known for. At some point his running 2 HAS to happen, and his giant curbstomp will forever be his grounded finishing move to me. 
> 
> Sometimes I just like an excuse to write Sergei wrecking face. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed gang!


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